


All Is Fair (In Love and War)

by fromprometheus



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Baz can't handle emotions, Boys In Love, CO/WS, Feelings, Fluff, Football, M/M, Penny is eternally Done with Simon's shit, Seduction through pranks, SnowBaz, University AU, carry on, carry on au, simon's sexuality crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromprometheus/pseuds/fromprometheus
Summary: (University AU; Simon starts a prank war because he hates his new flatmate. Baz retaliates because he has no idea how else to deal with his emotions. It all gets a little bit out of hand.)“Simon,” Penny says, suddenly and a little urgently, elbowing me in the side and pulling me out of my thoughts. She’d banned any kind of Baz-related conversation since the zip-tie incident, so I mostly just have to sit and stew about him until she eventually caves and lets me complain. And she had been bickering with Shepard about something, and I tend to tune those two out once they get started. “Oh, Simon. What the hell did you do?”“Huh?” I sit up, follow her gaze across the common room. “Oh, shit. Shit.”Case in point about him being everywhere; Baz Pitch is currently storming across the room, a face like thunder and his hair covered in glitter. He’s got dark hair, long for a bloke – down to his shoulders, so the pink glitter has gotten all over the shoulders of his jacket, too. I really hadn’t thought that mixing glitter with craft glue and emptying it into his shampoo bottle would work this well, but I don’t have too much time to feel smug, because Baz is probably going to kill me, first.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 19
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "(Wrong. I do have to be a dick. We all have our defence mechanisms. Some people have emotional stability, I have endless wit and vicious sarcasm. Bite me.)"

**SIMON**

It isn’t my fault.

Really. I didn’t start it. Well, okay – maybe I _did_ start it, when I switched Baz’s sugar for salt and watched him put three spoons of it into his coffee, a week into the first month of term. But it wasn’t like it was unprovoked, or anything. I’m usually friendly with pretty much everyone – but. Well. Baz Pitch is the biggest asshole I’ve ever met, and he entirely deserved it. (Also, it had been _hilariously_ satisfying, watching him choking and spitting his coffee out.)

Baz, apparently, had not thought so.

When he’d turned to me, where I was half-hiding behind Penny and trying (but mostly failing) to hide my laughter, I’d actually thought he might try to strangle me right there and then. Or decked me in the jaw, at the very least, because he’d looked positively _murderous_. He hadn’t, though, just pointed a long finger at me and said, ‘ _you better watch your fucking back, Snow’_ , and stormed out. (He only ever calls me by my last name, like he’s some sort of fucking move villain).

I hadn’t really taken his threat seriously, really. Baz was a grade-a asshole, but he mostly seemed too posh and bored and indifferent to do anything about it – and he definitely didn’t seem like he would stoop to my level and retaliate with a prank. I honestly didn’t think he would. That was, until I came back from a lecture two days later and found every single thing in my room zip-tied together. _Everything_. Clothes zip-tied to hangars, drawers zip-tied shut – and my only pair of scissors hanging from the door handle, zip-tied closed. And then there was Baz, leaning in his own doorway and genuinely fucking _cackling_. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy. I’m almost certain that’s the most emotion he’s ever shown before. (It had taken me all night to cut everything back open with a borrowed pocket-knife, and I still have no idea how Baz managed to break into my locked room.)

Of course, I had taken this as an act of war.

Penny thinks that I need to learn not to react so much to people. To Baz, especially. I can’t help it – growing up in a care home, you can’t show weakness. If someone fucks with you, you fuck with them right back, and you make sure to fuck with them worse. Because if you don’t, you become a target. It’s like fight or flight, except my brain is hardwired to skip straight to fight. Or to piss Baz off as much as possible, in this case, because I may still be a little bit of a thug, sometimes, but I’m not risking losing my place at Watford by starting a fistfight, no matter how much of a dick Baz Pitch might be. (I’m sort of waiting for him to start the fight, actually, so I can break his nose and then claim self-defence.)

So, okay. Sure. Maybe I did start it, kind of – but I don’t regret the coffee incident, because Baz really _had_ deserved it. He’d been the first of my new flatmates that I’d met, on the very first day, when I’d almost walked into him on the stairs. I’d started to introduce myself and apologise, and he’d just sneered at me and told me to watch the fuck where I was going. Admittedly, this had left me kind of shaken, because I was worried enough about starting Uni as it was – but then the next person I’d met had been Penny, who’d then proceeded to talk my ear off for a half hour, and had, by the end of the day, officially claimed me as her new best friend. Everyone else in the flat was nice, too, so I had figured that maybe Baz was just a prick. Maybe he was just miserable. I’d been proven wrong, however, when I’d walked into the kitchen to find Baz laughing with Niall and Shepard, although he’d stopped to glare as soon as he spotted me. Over the first few days, it became clear pretty quick that Baz, despite the biting sarcasm and mild snobbishness, was mostly pleasant enough – to everyone but me, apparently. For no apparent reason. I still can’t figure out what I did to irk him in the first place. I’d almost walked into him, sure, but that was an accident, and it wasn’t like I hurt him, or anything.

Agatha thinks I’m paranoid, and that I’m imagining things. But I’m not – I’m really, really not. (Also, she fancies Baz, fuck knows why, so her opinions are all redundant.) Baz glares – or sneers, or both – every single time he sees me, without fail. Even before the coffee incident. He’s constantly going out of his way to shoulder or shove or elbow me, and he’d even tripped me in the corridor, last week. Baz had claimed that it was an accident, but I’d spilled my lukewarm coffee all down my front and Baz had look especially pleased with himself. (I’m almost certain he only has three emotions – apathetic, pissed off or some twisted kind of vindictive amusement that he mostly gets from finding new ways to provoke me.) He gave me a bloody nose, too, during footie when he kicked the ball right at my face – he claimed he was aiming for the goal, but Baz is a brilliant player. I’ve never seen him miss a goal. He's captain of the freshers team, and even _I_ can admit that he does a good job at it.

The other thing about Baz? He’s everywhere.

It’s just my luck that out of all the six people that live in the flat, I ended up next door to him. Sharing a wall is bad enough, as it is – but on top of that, I have to see him pretty much everywhere I go. You’d think that Watford would be a big enough campus that I could avoid him, but, no. He’s fucking omnipresent, or something. Loitering in the corridors (probably plotting something), in the kitchen (taking up all of the fucking table space), lounging around in the common room, looking like he thinks he’s God’s gift to Watford. He’s at every party, every pub-crawl, every fresher event. At the campus coffee shop. At the library. At football practise. Everywhere.

I think this must be the universe’s way of evening things out. Everything else about Watford was near perfect – I love my friends, my course, my societies. This place is everything I dreamed about growing up; a whole campus full of interesting people with big dreams and the same interests as me. Here, no one jumps you when you’re not paying attention if you look at them wrong. No one steals your stuff the second you leave it unattended. No one goes hungry because all the food is stale. (Don’t even get me _started_ on the food here, because I could go on for hours.) Everything is too good to be true, almost. Everything except for Baz Pitch. I figure that if I have to put up with living next to him for the rest of the year, the rest of the good stuff makes it all worth it.

“Simon,” Penny says, suddenly, a little urgently, elbowing me in the side and pulling me out of my thoughts. She’d banned any kind of Baz-related conversation since the zip-tie incident, so I mostly just have to sit and stew about him until she eventually caves and lets me complain. And she had been bickering with Shepard about something, and I mostly tend to tune those two out once they get started. “Oh, Simon. What the hell did you do?”

“Huh?” I sit up, follow her gaze across the common room. “Oh, shit. Shit.”

Case in point about him being everywhere; Baz Pitch is currently storming across the room, a face like thunder and his hair covered in glitter. He’s got dark hair, long for a bloke – down to his shoulders, so the pink glitter has gotten all over the shoulders of his jacket, too. I really hadn’t thought that mixing glitter with craft glue and emptying it into his shampoo bottle would work this well, but I don’t have too much time to celebrate, because Baz is probably going to kill me, first.

“Pen,” I say, jumping to my feet and craning my neck to try and figure out the quickest escape route. “When I die, you have to retaliate, alright? Egg his car, or something. Continue my legacy.”

“Not a chance, Si.” She laughs, the dirty traitor. “Not a fucking chance.”

“Shepard?”

He shakes his head at me solemnly. “Sorry, friend, but you’re on your own.”

**BAZ**

Simon _fucking_ Snow.

I’m going to kill him. I’m actually going to murder him. I’m absolutely fucking _seething_ , all the way down to the common room, and I must look especially murderous because nobody comments on my hair when I stomp through the kitchen on the way down, not even Niall. Snow’s lounging on the couch in one corner, with his usual sidekick and Shepard. I don’t mind Shepard, actually, even if he never shuts up. (I never consciously decided to befriend Shepard, but he’s mates with Niall and he’s the sort of person that’s friends with absolutely everyone, so I guess I can tolerate him.) Bunce is alright, too, even though I’d never admit that – she’s doing the same course as me and she’s actually kind of brilliant. Probably my only competition for top of the class. She spots me first, and her eyes go wide behind her ridiculous glasses as she nudges at Snow. He leaps to his feet as he spots me. Which is good, because that’ll make it easier to punch him in the face, at least.

“ _Snow_!” I shout, storming across the room. There’s only a handful of people, and every single one of them turns to look at me. “Snow, I’m going to fucking kill you!” I get close enough to shove at his shoulder, hard enough to send him back a good few paces.

“Alright, Baz?” He says, looking endlessly smug. I despise him. Him and his golden curls and his blue eyes and his perfect fucking smile – but no, Christ, this is _so_ not the time. Not when I have class in ten minutes and look like I just left an especially hands-on children’s arts and crafts session. “Loving the new look.” He adds. Snow has a lot of good qualities – loyal to a fault, persistent as all fuck – but self-preservation is not one of them. He never does know when to shut up.

I never expected that, from him, that stubbornness – when he’d walked right into me with an armful of boxes on the first day and I’d (rightfully) told him to watch where the fuck he was walking, I’d mostly expected him to cower and stutter and apologise like anyone else would. He had stammered, actually, because he is the least eloquent person I’ve ever met, but then he’d squared his shoulders and pushed his chin out and told me that _I_ should maybe watch where _I_ was walking and that I didn’t have to be such a dick. (Wrong. I do have to be a dick. We all have our defence mechanisms. Some people have emotional stability, I have endless wit and vicious sarcasm. Bite me.) Sometimes I find myself provoking him just to get that reaction out of him. The way he sets his jaw, that flinty look in his eyes. I’ve got at least three inches on him, but he’s broad and strong and an immovable force when he’s pissed, and he gets right in my face like he’s not even vaguely scared of me. Of anything. It’s ridiculous. It’s unfairly attractive. I despise him. (I don’t.)

It's easier to pretend that I hate him. Easier than admitting I’m insanely attracted to him, anyway.

“Snow, you fucking imbecile.” I hiss, fist my hands into the front of his t-shirt and think about punching him. (Or maybe kissing him – but, no. _No_. Not the time). “I have a lecture in ten minutes, and I can’t get this _shit_ out of my hair!”

“Dunno what you’re on about, Baz.” He shrugs, knocking my arm away. His eyes are bright and mirthful, the dick. (He’s got the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.) “Are you accusing _me_?”

“I swear to fucking God, Snow-”

“I think it suits you, Basil.” Shepard says, pensively, and I turn to glare at him, instead. (Him and Bunce haven’t even made a move to get off the sofa – I don’t think either of them care about mine and Snow’s feud. I don’t blame them. It’s becoming tedious.) If it were anyone else, I’d think he was trying to be a dick – but it’s Shepard, and Shepard is endlessly, needlessly kind. It’s hugely irritating. I sneer at him.

“See, Baz?” Snow says, and immediately looks like he’s regretting it when I round on him again. “I’m sure you could pull it off.”

“You could wear a hat,” Bunce suggests, mildly.

“A hat,” I echo. I don’t think I’ve ever worn a hat in my entire life. “A fucking _hat_?” Snow snorts at this, and I once again consider punching him in the face. Barely a day goes by wherein I don’t consider punching him in the face. He pushes his jaw out like he’s daring me to do something about it. Like it’s a challenge. I can’t ever back down from a challenge – it’s one of my worse traits. (Fiona says I’m desperate to prove myself because my father never accepted me. I say she’s full of shit, and that if she feels the need to therapize anybody, she should really start with herself.) “That’s it. That’s it. You want a prank war? It’s on, you fucker.”

He properly grins, then. It’s a whole scene.

“Simon,” Bunce starts, warningly, “Simon. Don’t-”

“Oh, yeah?” He says, ignoring her. “It’s _on_.”

“You’ll pay for this, Snow. Watch the fuck out.”

I turn and storm out before I do something stupid. Like hit him. (Like kiss him.) I can’t risk trying to wash the glitter out again, because I’ll be damned if I miss a lecture and give Bunce a head start, so I end up borrowing a beanie from Niall. Bunce gives me a sarcastic thumbs-up when she sees me in lecture, and it’s possibly the worst moment of my entire life. I spend the entire hour glaring at my notes and willing the ground to swallow me up, and get so little work done that I might as well have not even gone in the first place.

Simon Snow is damn well going to regret ever starting this.


	2. Chapter 2

**SIMON**

I’m beginning to regret ever starting this.

So, yes, okay, fine. I did start it. Whatever. I didn’t realise that not only is Baz a snobbish prick, he’s also apparently an evil _genius_. It’s been two days since the glitter incident, and he’s already managed to make me regret all of this. Yesterday he taped clingfilm across my doorway, and I’d walked right into it in the morning on my way to breakfast – it had taken ages to cut enough of it down to be able to get out, and I’d been ten minutes late to my tutorial. (Although I guess I might have deserved that one, for making Baz go to his lecture covered in glitter.) The morning before that he’d emptied out my toothpaste and filled it back up with vodka. He’d moved all my food into the freezer overnight, too, which was actually more of an inconvenience than a prank, but still just as annoying. (I’d almost cracked a tooth on my cereal, yesterday.)

I have _no_ idea where he comes up with this shit.

I’ve never put much thought into this kind of thing, before. I’d never even pranked anyone before – at the home, we tended to work things out with our fists, instead. Penny is refusing to help me come up with ideas – “I won’t be an accessory to your childish feud, Simon, we’re not _kids_ ” – so I’ve mostly been using all of my free time in the last few days browsing Reddit for something that will piss Baz off enough.

Which is what has led me here, kneeling on the carpet outside Baz’s room and trying to pick his lock with a hairgrip that I borrowed from Agatha. I’d even managed to rope her into helping, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because she’s just as curious to see Baz’s dorm room as me and Penny are. Baz doesn’t let anyone in his room, not even Niall. (He says it’s because we’re all messy and he doesn’t want his stuff messed up, but I’m almost positive he’s like, drawing pentagons or summoning demons. Something evil, definitely. Something to justify the vampire-esque widow-peak haircut.)

“When the police ask,” she’s saying, “I was never here. This feels very illegal, Simon.”

It’s not illegal, I’m pretty sure. (Mostly sure?) Anyway, Baz broke into _my_ room first, so, if anything this is just retribution. If it is illegal, the two crimes definitely cancel each other out.

“Exactly!” Penny says, over my shoulder, which is impressive because Penny and Agatha never seem to agree on _anything_. “This is breaking and entering.”

“Technically, we aren’t breaking anything.” I point out, wiggling the hair grip. I have no idea if I’m doing this right or not, and this isn’t anywhere near as easy as it looks in the movies. “So it’s just entering, really, isn’t it? Unlocking and entering. That’s really not the same thing.”  
  
“Oh, and I’m sure _that_ would hold up in court.”

It takes another two minutes of me fruitlessly trying to shove the grip into the lock before Penny gives in on her no-involvement policy and takes over. Of course, she manages to get the lock open in a minute flat. (She’s brilliant. It’s kind of terrifying.)

Baz’s room is hugely disappointing. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t really expecting pentagons and an Ouija board, but I was expecting _something_ , at least. A voodoo doll with pins sticking out of it, or a bullet-pointed list of his evil plans to ruin my entire life, maybe. But it’s actually just a normal dorm room, except it’s compulsively neat – shoes lined up perfectly straight by the door, everything on his desk completely straight. There’s even a picture of him and a little girl – I assume his sister, she looks just like him – grinning at the camera on his bedside table. It’s oddly humanising. Like he’s normal, almost. (There’s no evidence of any evil plans anywhere – I check the notebooks on his desk and everything, just to make sure.)

I’m actually pretty proud of this prank, mostly because I’m positive it will piss Baz off. Penny’s armed with a huge multipack of plastic solo cups that I pilfered from the flat beneath us at a party a few nights ago; the plan is to fill the cups up with water and cover the floor of Baz’s room with them. I’ve thought it through, because, again, what’s the point in fucking with Baz if I don’t find the absolute optimal time to do it? I know he’ll be in a rush after his lecture, because we have football practise twenty minutes after his lecture. (This whole thing has also meant that I now know Baz’s schedule better than I know my own. Penny says I’m halfway to a restraining order, but I’m just being _vigilant_.) I’m hoping that he won’t be paying attention when he’s walking into his room, and that he’ll end up at least _slightly_ drenched. (It’ll be properly embarrassing if he does look before he walks into his room, but then again, I suppose it will still be a pain to get rid of all the water, anyway.)

“I don’t understand why you guys are doing this. Can’t you just, like, fight and get it over with?” Agatha asks, as she’s filling up cups of water from the sink in the corner of the room.

“Fighting is never the answer, Agatha.” Penny says, impatiently. “I’m not saying I approve of the pranks, Si, but it’s a better option than scrapping. I’m proud you haven’t gone off at him, yet.”

It’s a small miracle, if I’m honest. Baz gets under my skin like nobody else does – it’s like he knows where my weaknesses are, and he always takes the cheapest shot. I’d love nothing more than to deck him right in the face. (I can’t stop thinking about how satisfying it would be to break his nose. It’s kind of crooked at the bridge, like someone _has_ already broken it before. Lucky bastard.) But no matter what Baz (and Penny, actually) think, I do have _some_ common sense. I’m not a complete idiot.

Kids like me – kids who grew up in care – we don’t get many chances. My grades aren’t very good, compared to a lot of people on my course. My behaviour record from school isn’t too great, either. (I got in trouble with the police, too, once, for shoplifting. Not my finest moment. There weren’t many fine moments in my childhood, if I’m being entirely honest.) The only reason I ever got into university is because I managed to get myself back on track before it was too late, and then worked my ass off in the last year of school. If I’d met someone like Baz back in the home, I wouldn’t have hesitated to hit him. (He’s tall and broad, but I’m an immovable force when I’m mad; he wouldn’t have even seen it coming. I could have him on the floor in seconds.) (Yes, I spend a disproportionate amount of time fantasising about punching the daylight out of him, but can you really blame me?) But it’s not like that, now. Watford feels almost too good to be true, and I worked too hard to get here. I’m not saying I think the administration would kick me out over one fight, I don’t think, but I’m not risking anything. I can’t jeopardise my chance. My _only_ chance.

I don’t tell Penelope this, just roll my eyes and tell her to fill some more cups. I may not be able to punch Baz, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to make his life hell.

Penny drags Agatha away to the common room to meet Shepard after we finish, muttering something about plausible deniability, so I change into my football gear, sit in the kitchen, steal Niall’s bread to make a sandwich and wait. (I’ve still not quite got the hang of shopping for myself. I ended up with a trolley full of cereal and cake, last week, and Penny’s banned me from going without her.) We managed to cover every square inch of Baz’s room with dangerously full cups of water, and still had some left over, so we put some inside the wardrobe and along his windowsill and desktop, too. (I hope his stupid fancy clothes get drenched. Who needs that many fucking floral shirts? Posh twat.)

He flounces into the kitchen (Baz is incapable from entering a room normally) and looks annoyed from the moment he sees me, as per usual. He’s got an armful of boring-looking books – the same ones Penny’s got – and his cheeks and nose are flushed from the wind. “Still here, Snow?”

“Yes.” I snap, glowering at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
He smiles nastily at me. “Just wondering if the Uni had figured out that letting you in was a mistake yet. I hear you’re failing your classes. Unsurprisingly, of course.”  
  
My stomach twists. (Why does he always go for the lowest blow? Why does he have to be so awful?) Anyway – I’m not failing my classes, necessarily. Just not doing too well. But it’s fine, it’ll be fine – first year just barely counts for my degree, anyway. I just need to scrape a pass. (I have a sneaking feeling that Baz must have seen the F graded across the top of the essay that I left on my desk. I would be indignant about the invasion of privacy, but I _did_ go through his notes. I suppose we’re even.) “Fuck off, Pitch.” I growl, and he just sneers at me on his way past me through the kitchen. _Prick_.

I get my vindication when there’s a crash and the slam of a door a moment later. _Ha_.

“Fuck! What the fuck!” – and then, a half second later, “Snow! You fucking imbecile!”

**BAZ**  
  
I’m almost ashamed that I didn’t think of this one first.

I’m definitely ashamed that I didn’t see this coming. (I’ve been more vigilant than usual, recently, waiting for him to pull something – but he’d glowering at me from the moment I’d walked through the front door, and he’s just so fucking _distracting_.) I was too busy thinking about his ridiculous bronze curls and the way his face had fallen when I’d brought up his grades. (I don’t know why I’m so awful to him. I suppose I really don’t know how to act around boys I find stupidly attractive.) Now I’m completely soaked – and fuck, so is my fucking _carpet_ – but, well. I’m almost impressed that Snow had enough brain cells to do this. I’m surprised he even managed to get into my room. I haul myself up off the floor, crushing plastic beneath my feet as I do, and turn to glare at Snow.

He’s stood leaning a shoulder against the doorway adjoining the corridor to the kitchen, with this ridiculous, shit-eating grin. He’s already in his football kit – he wears a long-sleeved under-armour beneath his shirt, and he looks unfairly fit. (Jesus Christ, I’m so weak – Snow just soaked me and potentially ruined my carpet and all I can think about it how good his arms look.)

“I’ll fucking kill you, Snow,” I hiss, stepping forward – right into another cup of fucking water. It soaks right through my shoes, and he looks all-too pleased with himself. Smug bastard.

He grins wickedly, then looks down at his watch. “But then you’ll mis practise, Baz.”

I kick a crushed plastic cup at him in retaliation, and he laughs all the way back down the corridor.

**\---**

I’m five minutes late to football, out of breath from running from the dorms. My socks are still wet.

“Alright, Baz?” Dev grins as I jog to the edge of the pitch. Snow’s already on the pitch with Rhys, dribbling around cones. (His footwork is terrible.) Dev claps me on the shoulder, and then frowns at me. “Your shirt’s on inside out, mate.”

I curse, yanking my t-shirt up over my head and turning it the right way round. Snow’s looking at me when I pull it back over my head, and I give him the finger as we start drills. He scoffs – it’s a whole scene – and goes back to kicking angrily at the ball. I despise him. (Him and his strong legs and muscled calves and – no. _No_. Jesus Christ. Get the hell out of my head, Simon Snow.)

Snow’s a decent player, actually, as much as it really does pain me to admit it. He’s good – good enough to make the team, clearly – but in an unpolished, careless kind of way. All brute force and directionless energy. I don’t want to think too hard about how he could probably be the best on the team if he was a little more careful and practised. I don’t have to worry, though, really, because Snow isn’t careful with anything. (I think he thinks he can solve all his problems, on and off the pitch, if he just kicks hard enough.) I mostly try and block him out, during matches, because I can’t afford to get distracted, but it’s almost an impossible feat. Simon fills up every room he’s in. Every pitch he’s on. I can’t stop _looking_ at him, running across the grass, all strong and competent and beautiful, forearms grass-stained and knees scraped bloody. (Simon gets injured more than the entire rest of the team put together; we’re less than a month into season and he’s already been benched for injuries three times. He’s a walking disaster, honestly. I have no idea how he’s survived this far in life.)

Anyway, however good Snow might be, I’m better. This is at least a little consolation for the fact that I have to share a locker room with him, which is an entirely different brand of torture. I kick the ball hard at Dev to stop myself thinking about Simon in the locker rooms, steam still clinging from his skin after he’s showered, curls falling in his eyes when he bends over to knot his laces – anyway. Fuck. _Anyway_. I’m good, and I’m not just being cocky, either – I know I’m good. (There’s a reason why I’m captain of the freshers team.) I’ve been playing for years, since I was old enough to kick a ball around with Dev in the huge gardens of the family estate. I had the opportunity to go semi-pro, once, back when I was younger, but my father wouldn’t even consider it. He doesn’t think that sport is a real career, no matter how well it pays. He barely thinks football is a real sport, at that. He thinks it’s ‘common’, apparently. He’s been trying to get me to play lacrosse instead for years now. 

Coach starts us up on a five-a-side, then, which is ideal, because Snow ends up on the other team, and it’ll give me the chance to get some sort of retaliation – maybe if I can kick him in the shin hard enough I’ll feel marginally better. (That’s not to say I’m not currently thinking up ideas for an actual retaliation. I have a whole list of ideas to fuck with Snow, at this point.)

I wait until he’s close enough and shoulder him, hard, getting the ball out from under his feet and kicking it at the goal. (I score, obviously. I hardly ever miss.) The force of it sends him crashing to the grass, and Coach Mac blows the whistle. Dev’s glaring daggers at me from across the pitch, but I don’t really care. It’s not like it’s a real match, and it’s well worth the vicious twist of satisfaction I get from watching him drag himself to his feet, growling at me.

“What’s your problem, mate?” He shouts, shoves at my shoulder. 

Snow is ridiculously easy to provoke. The highest points of his cheekbones are stained red, flushed with anger. “You’re my problem, _mate_.” I tell him. “Always you.”

“I didn’t even do anything to you!” He shouts. He’s proper fit - jaw set, shoulders squared, fists clenched like he’s physically stopping himself from hitting me. There’s this twisted part of me that almost wants him to, if only for the chance to get my hands on him. (I’m deranged. Ask anyone.)

“You soaked my carpet!” I don’t shout, not quite, because I refuse to stoop his level. I’m all for a good dramatic flair, but Snow manages to turn everything he does into a goddamned scene. It’s exhausting. Coach is trudging over to us, looking thoroughly unimpressed, and the rest of the lads have started playing without us. I suppose they’re all bored with us bickering every practise.

“You froze my cereal!”

I did. It was hilarious. I taped clingfilm across his doorway and watched him walk into it, too, which had been even more hilarious. “You put _glitter_ in my shampoo!” I snap back at him, which is about the same time Coach Mac gets close enough that we both turn to him. He looks heavenward, like he’s completely done with the pair of us. (And, yes, okay. I’m aware we sound like children.)

“Lads.” He says, slowly. “I understand you have some issues with one another. But please – please, for the love of God – can you leave it off of my pitch?”

Snow ducks his head, but not before I catch the flush of red high on his cheekbones. “Yes, Coach.”

He looks at me expectantly. “Fine.” I shrug, crossing my arms over my chest. (I can almost hear Fiona’s voice in my head telling me that I look like a petulant toddler. Like _she_ can talk. She and her boyfriend Nicky argue like schoolchildren.) (Not that Snow’s my boyfriend. ) (Fuck.)

“Right. Two laps, and then get back in the game.” He says, and then pauses before turning away. “Glitter, really? You’re _eighteen_ , lads. Not eight.”

Snow sticks his tongue out at me the moment Coach turns his back. He’s ridiculous. He’s the most immature halfwit I’ve ever met. (I also want him to stick his tongue down my throat. Amongst other things.) (Fuck.) I sneer at him and start jogging, trying to ignore the swooping feeling in my stomach.

Simon _fucking_ Snow. 

**Author's Note:**

> I just have such a soft spot for enemies to lovers and uni AUs, so, here we go I guess. I already have a solid outline and lockdown means I have way too much time on my hands, so hopefully this will be updated regularly!  
> Thanks for reading (:


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